Takes Two to Tango
by usomitai
Summary: Wilson is acting strange, which sets off House’s curiosity.
1. To go where all the strange ones go

**To go where all the strange ones go**

And just like that, Wilson decided to move out.

House found him one morning reading through the classifieds, drinking coffee and circling an ad here and there with a blue pen. "What did you in?" House asked.

"You didn't replace the toilet paper," he said smoothly, automatically, without even looking up from the paper.

"Huh." How disappointing. After all that trouble yesterday to fill Wilson's briefcase with extra-large tangerine-flavored condoms, it was something this banal that defeated him. "How camelish of you, to collapse under the weight of straws."

"Remember, we camels spit," Wilson warned.

By the end of the day Wilson had squared away a new apartment. When House heard of its location, he tried to remind him that the bogeyman and his nefarious friends hung out there. Wilson waved off his concerns, saying that he'd been there before ("buying drugs?") and that it wasn't anywhere near as bad as people made it out to be. As long he was careful, he'd be fine. He seemed quite determined to move out, and House wasn't one to insist on defending his friend's best interests. If he wanted to live in a crack-whore den, so be it. Maybe while he was there he could pick up some new hooker contacts for House.

With the apartment empty of both foreign persons and objects, House was exuberant. Wilson's presence didn't demand I too /I much propriety and social niceties, but he still required some nonetheless. And, finally, a full night's worth of sleep!

All in all, he was feeling something nearing jovial the next day. He almost caught himself nodding at Cameron's good-morning smile, and stopped himself just in time. He scowled instead—wouldn't want to give her the wrong idea—but she kept right on, lips still all bent upward. Maybe she could smell the cheerfulness on him. This was bad. He didn't want to let his slaves get happy; it led to bad work ethics. The way his department worked, someone would probably die if anyone got too self-satisfied.

He swung by Wilson's balcony door, just to see how the old doctor was getting along, but his door was locked. It turned out that he hadn't even come in that morning, with the flimsy excuse of setting up his new apartment. House snorted when he heard the news. He could just see Wilson carefully planning, as if it mattered, where to put up each painting— but Wilson didn't have any paintings to hang at the moment. What little he did have wouldn't take that long to arrange. Perhaps he was buying a whole new apartment's worth of furniture and goods, to help wash away the taste of the memories from his old place and ex-marriage.

House didn't take Wilson's absence to heart on the first day, nor on the third, and didn't wonder at the lack of phone calls updating him on the latest prices on bookshelves and tables. In fact, he was so overdosed on Wilson from the past few weeks of living together that the lack of contact came as a relief, like going for a cruise on the Caribbean.

By the fifth day of work House was tired of his metaphorical vacation and wanted to go back home. It had been over a week since he'd last seen or heard from Wilson, and while he tried to fill the gap by annoying his interns instead, it wasn't the same; they didn't annoy him back. Not intentionally, anyway. Cuddy wasn't a good substitute either: instead of annoying House back, she tended to rip him new holes where he least needed them.

He asked Wilson's new aide (or personal assistant or whatever politically correct term was currently in fashion) if she knew when her boss was coming back in. She blinked her beautiful clear blue eyes at him—the reason why Wilson never criticized House for hiring Cameron was because he too preferred to work with pretty women—and supplied, "He's been back for two days."

"Just testing to see if you're on toes. Stay there, little ballerina," he said, to cover the fact that he hadn't known, and she rolled her eyes, thinking it was another one of his unfathomable pranks.

Wilson had vanished while in plain sight. This was curious and, therefore, fascinating.


	2. You will succumb to me

**You will succumb to me**

A couple of days later House caught and cornered him the cafeteria.

He plopped himself into the seat next to Wilson, who all but jumped up and left. Edginess in his presence: another symptom. They just kept adding up.

"You've been avoiding me."

Wilson couldn't leave without confirming the statement, and they both knew it. He was forced to endure this. "Because it all comes back to you." And now he was saving face by ridiculing House.

"It's all relative, baby, and I'm stuck with my point of view. But it's you we're discussing. Avoiding me."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Not."

"You're going to force me into listing the evidence, aren't you? Couldn't you be _less_ annoying?"

"It's not in my nature, sorry."

"Annoying it is, then. Case the first, you come back to work and you don't drop by for tea and biscuits or even a hello."

"I was busy catching up on my work- next time I'll be sure to check in with you."

"Case the second: you do not actually have meetings everyday."

"Have you ever looked at my schedule? My secretary will be happy to show you my calendar. The thing's booked."

"Case the third: lunch seems to have become a thing of the past."

"I'm sitting here, aren't I?"

"There's always an exception. So you forgot to pack a lunch today and got hungry, like people are wont to do."

"This is so eighth-grade of you, by the way. Later we can form a secret group and hand-shake."

"Case the fourth: you haven't been answering my phone calls."

"What, the 'I'm watching Everwood rerun marathon' series of messages? I hadn't realized they required an actual reply."

"Case the fifth: whenever we've been in the same place at the same time, you're undeniably jumpy. Which brings me to case number six, which, with all the evidence it makes for a damning verdict: you're having difficulty maintaining eye contact with me. It's a clear sign of guilt."

"This is the sound of paranoia."

"I've known you for how many years? And you've never been too busy to leave your client for a second or half an hour, to leave a wife in the lurch- I'm not buying your innocent act. Are you going to eat that?" House nabbed a fry from Wilson's tray.

"Fine. Say I have been avoiding you. What of it?"

"I want to know why."

"Sometimes a man needs his space."

"Don't lace it with sugar. Be a man! Say it straight: _I_ need my space."

"I needed space. I needed to get away from you, because you were getting on my nerves. It's the same reason why I moved out in the first place. There. Happy?"

"Ecstatic." His voice was devoid of all ecstasy.

This deflated Wilson. "Look, I'm so—"

"Maybe we should work something out. A sign on your door, perhaps. 'On nerves', 'Not on nerves.' That way we can avoid mixed signals."

"It's—"

"My fault, I know. I should know my boundaries better. I'll paint out guide lines, I promise not to step into your precious space anymore."

"You did ask, House."

"And you felt that way."

"It was too much! I felt like I was overwhelmed by you. You were just always _there_, everywhere I looked. I got out before I snapped."

"That explains why you moved out. Which, by the way, I think was a fine move. It doesn't explain why you're still treating me like the plague."

"Recovery."

"You're lying."

Wilson threw his hands up the air. "Glad to establish that, and gladder still that you trust me. It was a very productive conversation, thank you ever so much." He took his lunch tray and left.

"It was the first time you looked me in the eye!" House yelled after him. "Of course you were lying!"


	3. To stand on the line of hope

**To stand on the line of hope**

A familiar knock sounded on his apartment door. "Come in!" House yelled.

It was, of course, Wilson, looking mildly sheepish. "Hey."

"If it isn't Mr. Liar. Care for a drink?"

"Please."

"Get it yourself. You know where everything is. While you're at it, get me a beer."

It was very odd how ordering Wilson about put him at ease.

Wilson came back with two beers, sat down on the couch in front of the T.V. House debated staying in the single-man couch, the one he usually used for reading, and decided he wasn't in the mood for across-the-room yelling. Not without a sigh, he limped to the other side of the couch, sans cane.

"I freaked out," Wilson explained.

"Did you now."

"I—we were too close. And I didn't mind. That bothered me."

"You left because you didn't want to?" House took a swig of beer.

"Something like that."

"Still doesn't explain your avoiding me."

"They're related. I thought it'd be better to distance ourselves. A break."

"Without saying a word."

"I didn't think you'd understand."

"Right on that account. _You're_ the one who sounds like an eighth-grade girl. Can't tell you how many women have used that excuse to break up with me. 'We should spend some time apart.' 'We need to grow as separate people.'" These last two phrases House mimicked in a high pitch voice while bopping his head from side to side. Wilson grinned, in spite of himself.

But he took a deep breath, and the grin was gone. "I was scared you wouldn't want the same thing."

"What's that? Try me, you'd be amazed at all the things I want."

"Better leave it be, House."

"You can't have given up on it all that much, if you went so far as to arouse my curiosity. You know me, I'm not going to stop bugging you until you—"

Wilson picked up House's hand, the one not holding the beer, held it in his palm. His thumb found its way to his wrist, and he stroked downwards, into the center of House's hand, slowly, once, twice. He interlaced their fingers, squeezed gently. "Oh." Shivers ran down House's spine.

"I told you," and Wilson pulled his hand away. "Don't worry, I'll get over it. Halfway there already." He laughed, though it was more mechanical than anything. House had never heard him sound that way before. "Not that it'll stop you from mocking me for all that I'm worth!" House watched Wilson as he slumped back, his head falling onto the couch. "Wow," he said, after staring up at the ceiling for a few seconds, "it's good to get that out." He laughed again, but this time he sounded normal. "Maybe now I'll let it go."

"Let it go," House repeated, and mentally hit himself for acting dumbstruck.

"You're surprised, aren't you?" Wilson analyzed. "I guess it is surprising. Maybe you could get your rat pack to do a differential diagnosis on me, for a straight man showing homosexual tendencies after a lifetime of hetero—"

"You're defending yourself," House interrupted, "with self-mockery."

"I— maybe a little."

"You don't need to."

"Because you'll do it for me?"

"Just don't."

Wilson looked away. "Thank you."

They drank their beers, and then a couple of more, in silence. When Wilson left, it was without a word, but House accompanied him to the door.


	4. All the dreams sing their song

**All the dreams sing their song**

Wilson had said it was done and over with.

Maybe it was, for him.

House couldn't sleep: insomnia was his old buddy from way back when, and it came back to visit whenever he had something to puzzle out or a thought process he needed to digest. He'd long since learned to not even bother going to bed on nights like these.

After Wilson left, he pulled up the cover of his piano, removed the cloth covering the keys. While he was a slob (his apartment being testimony to this fact) he took care of what mattered. The piano was clean, regularly tuned. It was comforting, that. As a place where he often went to when he had problems, it was good to have it in fit condition.

Not yet having picked out what to play, his left hand, the one that could still feel Wilson's thumb running over it, trailed along aimlessly, tinkering out a benignly boring set of notes. His right one followed along with the melody. Eventually he settled down for a _lento_ version of Norwegian Wood.

Wilson's guilty demeanor this evening implied embarrassment, and the way he had been all but running away these past few weeks indicated fear. Wilson was usually bold with his conquering (and House would know, having witnessed him do so, so many times); that he wasn't this time around meant he thought House would mock and reject him.

And he might. He was still working on that.

His hands, always so sure, hit a wrong note, then another one. He cursed and started over from the beginning.

This had to be a recent development, since Wilson hadn't previously exhibited any signs of physical affection, or, at least, no embarrassment over them. Probably dated back to the day he decided to move out, which would explain his sudden and overwhelming urge to get the hell out. Epiphanies, what bitches they are, never letting you live your life the same.

What about himself, where did he stand in all this? Did his life have to change too?

He had to admit, he was dreadfully curious. He had watched the last few years' worth of Wilson's romances (sometimes with a bucket of popcorn) and had a fair idea of the general plot. They meet in some quaint way that bears the retelling a dozen times over. There is instant attraction, followed by conversations over long lunch hours, which leads to dinner invitations. The length and content of the middle part varied, but whatever it was, the ending was always the same. House had seen this movie before. But he'd never been I in /I it, never been the costarring actor. And unless he was wrong, the plot wasn't the same. He wouldn't fit into any of the pretty dresses, for one. And he knew what Wilson was like. There couldn't be the shocking scene wherein the heroine realizes her lover's dark past, because House had already met all the skeletons in Wilson's closet. In fact, he had put some in there himself.

He didn't know the ending to this film, and it was his to make. He could let it finish here, and that would be that. Over before it started. But that was too boring. He wanted to write that script, see where it led. Wanted to be in the scene, to feel what it was like, for once, instead of sitting in the audience, looking at his watch and wondering when he could leave.

At some point his playing had gone from _lento_ to _presto_.


	5. How does it feel when you're inside me

**How does it feel when you're inside me?**

The very first thing the following morning, before anyone could try to force on him a new patient, and before Wilson could begin his typical morning oncologist routine, House bounded in through the balcony entrance and into his friend's office. Wilson, who was still transferring papers from his briefcase onto his desk, crossed his arms and set his feet apart, as though that were enough to ward off whatever ammunition this crazy cripple had packed away in, say, his cane. "Let's give this a try," House cheerfully suggested, giving him a wink as he loped to the main door. He turned the lock with a satisfying click.

From the way that neither Wilson's defensive stance nor his wary expression changed, it would seem that he had expected this outcome. "Oh, definitely," he drawled, "of course."

"Even lazy jellyfish fish do it, let's do it," House sang as he mimicked a top hat off his head, twirling his cane, which he then let fall. It went down with an equally satisfying rattle as it hit the floor. Wilson looked at that, then looked back at House, one eyebrow raised.

"What _are_ you up to?" But his arms had uncrossed.

"Look, there are only so many ways a man can say it before he gets tired and gives up."

Now both of Wilson's eyebrows went up, straight straight up, reaching up for his hairline. It made his eyes kind of bulge. "You're s-serious," he stammered, his face tilting up as House came nearer. "This is sudden."

"Yes, because you weren't all over me last night."

"I was _not_--"

"Were you thinking of doing anything in particular?" House spread his arms wide open. "I'm here."

Wilson thoughtfully raked his upper teeth over his lower lip, and though House wouldn't ever admit it even to himself, he felt his bravado flicker. "You're serious," Wilson said again, this time more to himself, angling it so as to see all the possibilities. He took a step back, to have the perspective to look over House. His eyes traveled down, then up, then down again; House suddenly had an idea what those mannequins in store windows felt like.

"Wouldn't say _serious_ per se, I don't do serio—"

"Sit down," Wilson interrupted him.

"If you're going to be _bossy_ --"

Wilson's were hands were on his neck and right shoulder, and before House could get used to that- he'd never held him that way before- he was being kissed, hard and insistent and with _tongue_, which was yet another new feeling to get used to, that is, having Wilson's breath in his mouth, and while he was still reeling, Wilson _bit_ him. Like, bit the tip of his tongue. While it didn't hurt, House hadn't realized he'd signed up for teeth, or, come to think of it, getting aroused over it. He began to suspect that he'd jumped into this gay sex thing a little too willy-nilly.

"Sit down."

This time House did, falling backwards into Wilson's leather chair.

Wilson got on his knees, and House was thankful for a moment because he couldn't kiss him from there, and maybe he'd have a moment to catch his breath. And as Wilson worked at his belt, he thought at least this much he could handle, because with blow jobs, it didn't matter the sex of the blower, the mechanics were the same. So long as he didn't look down, he wouldn't see his best friend's face there, and he could put off panicking for another, more convenient time.

Maybe because Wilson was disturbingly good at this, House found his hands grasping the sides of Wilson's head, his fingers slipping through the long brown hair. He came quickly, his eyes closed, and without a sound.

"Well?" Wilson asked, a little expectantly, a little smugly. House was aware that, normally, at this juncture one should offer to return the favor. Attempt to reciprocate, make it nice and mutual. That would make sense to be the next step.

But all House could think of was how his semen, after being expulsed through his urethra, had gone through Wilson's mouth, his epiglottis, and was now making its way down his esophagus. Before long the semen would pass through the cardiac sphincter, where Wilson's stomach would quickly break it down with acids and enzymes. From there, the remains would travel through the intestines, and Wilson would absorb what little fructose, minerals, and vitamins there were to be had. Before of the end of the day, he'd have relieved himself of what remained.

As these thoughts ran through his head, Wilson, still on his knees, was becoming progressively horrified. "I sucked, didn't I."

It was testament to just how disoriented House was that he didn't take up the cheap shot. "No, it was—thank you." Wait, oh god, Wilson wasn't going to try to kiss him, was he? But he'd just-- he _would_ be the type who thought that orally returning bodily fluids to its creator was sexy. As if the teeth hadn't been enough. "I should—there's probably some patient dying for me to get their hands on them—" He could use the front door. But he wanted to go through the back route, sneaking away like nothing had happened. Zipping his pants and buttoning the top, House reached for his cane and stumbled out to the porch.


	6. Treat him like a lady

**Racism in among future kings can only lead to no good**

By the end of the day House felt like a downright tool.

**Treat him like a lady**

It was the first time House had tried looking for Wilson's new apartment— address courtesy of the pretty nurse/aide/secretary-- and he got lost for half an hour. It was on some unheard-of street, one that curved and twisted around another tiny avenue. He didn't believe in asking for directions, and maps were for long-distance traveling, not going across the city. After circling many, many, many times over, he finally found the damn place.

Wilson had been right. The neighborhood wasn't as bad as hearsay painted it. Still wasn't anything to boast about, either. He must have been desperate, to snap up the first apartment that was available.

He lived on the third floor—bastard—but the elevator worked. Creaked, but worked.

Wilson looked surprised when he saw House. What was it about Wilson, that he could never predict anything, that everything caught him unprepared? House had tried to teach him how to think ahead. It was the only way to keep life from catching you with your pants down. So to speak.

Wilson asked, "What're you doing here?"

House chewed at his cheek, tried to think of how to put it in the least embarrassing way possible. "I freaked out too."

Wilson moved away from the doorway, opening the way into his apartment. "No kidding." The room was bare, no furniture, nothing on the walls. There were only the curtains, leftover from the previous owner. They might have been beige once, now they were just dirty. Once inside, Wilson looked at him expectantly, perhaps waiting for a set of magical words to spill out of House's mouth.

He had to start somewhere. First he cleared his throat. "I've got a theory."

"Do tell."

"We're actually dancing-- you take a step back, I take one forward. I move back—well, in this case I'm the one moving forward, though most dance routines would have you follow. You've missed a step, but don't worry, I'll let you catch up."

"House." Wilson pinched the top of his nose. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but—are you hitting on me? _Again_?"

House hit his forehead with the palm of his hand, purposefully making a loud smacking sound. "Dammit! My Flirting for Dummies book told me to play it cool—now that you know, my game is totally given away!"

Wilson did this thing that House could only describe as sputter. "You… try to seduce me, run away like the demons of hell themselves were after you, and now you're trying again?"

"What can I say, I don't know what I want."

"Aside from lots and lots of pain," Wilson remarked dryly.

"Well, duh, I wouldn't be here but for the prospect of hurt, despair, and depression."

"That's what I'm here for."

His tone was so disapproving that the conversation died right then and there, and though House was used to that (it happened to him a little more often than constantly), it'd been a while since it'd happened with Wilson. He suddenly wished there was some distraction available—something to sit in, something to spill, something to make him feel less like a shooting target for Wilson's resentment. Instead they were just standing around like a couple of morons. "Well, this is just as awkward as I thought it was going to be."

"Hard to be any worse." Wilson nodded, folding his arms.

"It could be a lot worse. I mean, if you were angry, this would be even less fun."

"What makes you think I'm _not_ angry!"

House leaned in, as if to whisper a secret. "I notice a distinct lack of ass kicking."

"Maybe I'm waiting to hear what you have to say before I get to that."

"Maybe I have nothing to say."

"Then maybe I'll skip the violence and just rant your ear off."

House was horrified. "You'd do that."

"What can I say? The women get all the credit, but scorned men are no laughing matter either."

Frankly, House wasn't going to put up with this. He'd come here all nicely, to offer the man exactly what he'd wanted, and now not only was he still angry, he was threatening him with _lectures_. "Thanks, but no th—"

Wilson grabbed his arm. "Just say it, House."

The thought that he could end this all, right now and here, ran through his mind. He could shake off Wilson, leave, and they'd probably continue being buddies, because that's how they were. But this particular path would be closed to him, and he'd never be able to explore it further. And as much as Wilson could drive him crazy, he still wanted to know what it was like to have him. "I freaked out."

Wilson's grip on his arm relaxed. "So you said."

"I'm not so freaked out now." House took a deep breath. "Look, we're not going to go so quickly this time. And there's never going to be anal sex, unless there's a lot, and I mean a _lot_, of booze, enough to make me forget who I am. It's not that I'm old, I'm just too fussy and set in my ways to pick up new tricks."

For the first time since he'd moved out, Wilson smiled at him and it was embarrassing how much of a relief it was to see it. He shouldn't be so worried on what he thought of him- then again, if he didn't, he probably wouldn't be here in the first place. He'd be at home, safe and far away from this insanity. "Don't worry, this dog is feeling the weight of his years, too."

"Okay. Good. Good. …Anything else we ought to get off our chests, to avoid further freak outs?"

"I think this is a mistake."

That was not, exactly, what House wanted to hear. "Way to step with your right foot forward, Wilson!"

"I mean it. We're already in each other's hair more than we can really stand to be, and now we're going to add this?"

"That's fear I hear talking."

"I call it realism, you call it fear. Let's call the whole thing off."

"Are you always this much of a wimp? How did you _ever_ bag that many women? I've gotten this far because of _you_, and you can bet your bottom dollar I'm not going to let you go this easy. Now, come on. What do two gay men do when there's no ass fucking?"

Wilson paused, and for a moment House thought that he really was, after all the trouble he'd gone through, planning to chicken out on him. The moment passed. "I hear that, like with heterosexual pairs, kissing is a common start."

"How extraordinary. The things one learns! Well?"

"You want _me_ to make the first move."

"This is your apartment. It's your duty as my host to make me feel as welcome as possible. Besides, I'm new to this gay thing. You need to drive me around the town, show me the local attraction points. Get me acquainted."

"The _only_ man I've done anything with is you. I'm as new to this as you are."

"Wimp," House said in a sing-song voice.

"You think—"

"Wiiiimp"

"You're so-" Rolling his eyes, he took House's hand, the one without the cane, and led him towards what had to be the bedroom. "If we're going to be slow about this, we might as well get a comfortable place."

"Lead the way!"


	7. Put away my black book

**Put away my black book**

Within a week, Wilson's "I'm going to your place tonight," became synonymous with "Let's have sex." Since things were going so swimmingly, House decided that it was time to try pulling at the plug—better now than later.

The T.V. was on, so that they could pretend that they were watching an Everwood rerun. What they were doing what House fondly remembered from his college days as 'necking.' When Wilson's hand started to snake up his shirt, House held it down. "You should know."

"Your parents will be home early?" Wilson suggested, biting at his ear.

"If we do this thing long-term, you've got to mean it."

Wilson pulled back, and House saw that he was grinning like one of those plastic clowns you can punch and punch and punch, and they'll bounce right back, every time, with that maniac grin still there. Great. "Well, I'll be. Are we really having this conversation?"

"On second thought, no, let's skip it and get back to the making out."

"Oh, no you don't! You started it-- let's lay down the law, establish the rules of this—" and House could tell that he was savoring what was coming next, "relationship."

"Sorry, changed my mind, it's over."

Wilson kissed him, all demanding and annoyingly hot, and dammit, he I was /I one of those clowns, coming back for more. That persistency of his made it very impossible to get rid of him. "I'm sorry too," he breathed. "You're not getting away that easily. Admit it, you wanna go _steady_. Lay it down, what's your condition?"

House sighed, then gave in. "No cheating."

Oh, so it was possible to knock him down, as long as he had the right weapon.

Wilson slid his hands out of House's shirt. "It's not going to be an issue. I won't."

House jabbed him in the ribs. "How many women have heard that one?"

Wilson jabbed him back. "Allow me to kindly inform you that the most recent of my marriages was ended by _her_ infidelity. I don't mean to repeat my mistakes."

The jabbing became tickling, and House doesn't know how they could joke around when they were talking about such serious Weighty Important Things—none of his ex-girlfriends would have stood for it—but within minutes most of the cushions had been flung off the couch, and he was on his back, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. Bastard.

"Convinced?" Wilson asked, and unable to pull in the air for words, House kind of wagged his head. "Good."

He got air back into his system—still on his back, Wilson was straddling him, no getting up—and said, "I don't think you'd be so stupid, anyway."

"My stupidity does have its limits," Wilson admitted, "but—" and he started to unbutton House's shirt, slowly, as if he weren't terribly interested in seeing him naked, "I get to set some rules of my own."

"I'm not giving up the Vicodin," House defended, "or lowering the dosages."

"Wouldn't dream of asking," Wilson assured him. "No, I want to move back in." House got impatient with Wilson's pace, and undid the last set of buttons himself.

"You're the one who moved out."

"That a yes?" And Wilson was smiling again, the clown, but not for long, because they were kissing and it's hard to do both at the same time.

------------------------------

**Author's notes**: And thus ends the story-- or this part of it, anyway. "Take Two (to Tango)" is actually the first in a (completed) trilogy and the chapters of the next part, "Familiarity (Breeds Contempt)", will start going up tomorrow.

Thank you for reading this far, and thank you for all the kind comments!


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